


Calligraphypenn's Creatively Titled Fenders Collection

by calligraphypenn



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/pseuds/calligraphypenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gathered here are my Tumblr ficlets, all Fenders. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Scarf

Lirene had what he asked for–a mound of soft grey wool and two smooth sticks. Anders was grateful that she didn’t raise an eyebrow or sniff. As a matter of fact, she offered to teach him some stitches.

It was a blessedly quiet afternoon for them both, and neither of them felt compelled to talk much. Anders took the wool and the needles with him when he went, but not before Lirene pressed a cup of tea on him. It was something to be proud of, he thought, being one of Lirene’s allies.

He had joked once about learning to knit, but now it felt like a desperate grasp at some peace of mind. He had seen his mother enter a kind of trance state while her hands worked away on socks and caps, and too many nights at the clinic alone, too exhausted to work on his manifesto but with his mind buzzing with anxieties, spurred him to find some more restful activity. Getting back to his clinic that night, it was a few hours before Anders found himself knitting again, legs up on another cot.

Of course, Fenris had made it clear that he did not need to spend his nights alone, or at the clinic at all. When Anders had asked if the mansion was so much better, all Fenris had said was:

“At least if we are attacked in Hightown someone would heed it: a guard, or Hawke. In the Undercity that is a normal Tuesday night.”

It was too tempting to think about: though the mansion was in horrendous disrepair, it was not Darktown. Though Fenris could sometimes leave him gasping with anger, he was not an agonized refugee on their last legs.

As for their arguments...Fenris, he’d found, showed a skepticism of most ideologies and causes, though he was developing a baffling interest in Andrastianism.

Anders was hardly one to talk, ideology-wise.

But whenever Sebastian crowed about Fenris going to pray or whatnot, Anders was having a harder and harder time not pointing out that Fenris seemed just as interested in the Qun.

These were some of the thoughts Anders had while his fingers moved, and when he woke in the morning, knitting still in hand, it seemed easy to keep going. It took shape, in the early hours, and when the sun was high enough he tucked it into a pocket and went to Hightown.

He let himself into the decrepit mansion, and tromped up the stairs.

Fenris was still in bed, curled up but awake. He had probably awoken when Anders had opened the door below, but he looked relaxed enough now, hair fanned out on a pillow, green eyes half opened.

“You knew it was me,” Anders said, sitting on the edge of the bed to take off his boots.

“You made sure I knew it was you,” Fenris said, and as Anders shrugged off his coat, twined his long arms around Anders’ waist. It was nothing, then, to get into bed with him.

Later, Anders awoke to the clink of the fastenings to Fenris’ armor.

“I wasn’t going to wake you,” Fenris said. “Hawke wants to go to Sundermount. Go back to sleep.”

Anders rubbed some of the grit from his eyes, then, remembering, reached to pull his coat up from the floor. Sitting up, he motioned Fenris over.

“It gets cold on Sundermount,” he said, pulling out the scarf. It had come out well, and as he draped it around Fenris’ neck, he didn’t meet Fenris’ eyes. Some lovers hated affectionate gestures. He supposed it was time to find if Fenris was one of them.

“It’s…very soft,” Fenris said, his voice awkwardly loud in the quiet of the room. Anders, feeling his face heat, lay back down and turned away, towards the light coming in through the cracks in the ceiling.

“Where did you buy it?” Fenris asked, being polite, Anders supposed.

“I made it,” Anders said, and closed his eyes.

Silence from Fenris then, and Anders wondered if he was going to say anything at all.

Then a cool hand brushed back the hair at the back of his neck, and Anders trembled slightly at the unexpected feeling of a kiss pressed there.

“Thank you,” Fenris said, and rose. “I’ll see you tonight. You…can stay as long as you like.”

Anders twisted to watch as Fenris left–shining silver and black armor, and at his neck a soft grey scarf.

Anders closed his eyes and went back to sleep.


	2. Cyberpunk AU

It was quiet in the glass room, that soared above the streets of Kirkwall. Anders could see the lights of the city far below—if he had cared to, his cybernetics would allow him to pick out the individual people passing along the street below. That is, if the weather had not been at odds with it. Hawke’s tower apartment was above the cloud layer, and the mist pressed against the glass, moving like a living thing.

Hawke was poised over a glowing screen, intent on the schematics of some new weapon he had acquired—it wouldn’t do to equip something looted from a safebox, only for its coding to be faulty or downright malicious. The least that could happen was a fried brain.

Anders watched his hand clench and unclench against the window glass, without any input from his own brain. He felt his spine twisting, trying to turn, and he only halfheartedly resisted as his body turned towards Fenris, who immediately focused on him. With a sigh he dug a water pouch out from the pocket of his jumpsuit, and gave it an underhanded toss.

Fenris smoothly caught it, and his eyes narrowed.

“What’s this?” Fenris said. Though it was the first thing he’d said to Anders the entire time since they’d arrived at the penthouse, Anders felt his mouth quirk. In a way, they’d been talking the entire time.

“You need water,” Anders said, and that was that.

Or so he would wish.

“I’m not thirsty,” Fenris said, and made to throw it back. It was almost gracious of him, but Anders blew out a breath through his nose.

“Fine, it’s not _you,”_ he said, in a lower voice. But Hawke was still entranced by their screen, and missed how Fenris sat to attention on the lounge, then stood up, abruptly.

Fenris jerked his head, and soon they were out on the balcony, the wet wind tugging at their clothes. Gusts of mist engulfed the balcony and swept on, and Anders could nearly, on some other level of consciousness, feel relief that was not his own.

“It’s dehydrated,” he said, once they were out of earshot.

“I told you to stop talking to it,” Fenris said coldly. Their subject of discussion pulsed sullenly on Fenris’ skin—a webbing of phosphorescent matter, capable of producing an energy of the likes Anders had never seen, which lately had turned out to be terrifyingly _sentient._

 _And communicating with the program in Anders’ head._ He restrained a shiver, and tried to answer.

“I’m not, it’s–”

“Your outdated primitive _virus,”_ Fenris said. “Justice. Pfah. You said once you would tell me how.”

“How they’re communicating? I have a theory.”

“Out with it,” Fenris said menacingly.

“If you drink that water, I will,” Anders said, and tried to put his thoughts in order as Fenris tore off the plastic release cap, and drained the water in one gulp.


	3. Pen and Ink

It’s something they both can understand, the importance of words.

Their shared spaces are often covered in scraps of paper and quills rendered useless by the amount of ink that has been allowed to dry upon them. The books they both keep are scrounged from the mansions’ collection as well as Hawke’s home. Most of them are outdated, Anders says, a long-fingered hand sweeping over the page, as if to reorder the words. The ones on history end on events two generations before, the authors speculating on the possibilities of years long gone. Fenris devours them anyway. The history of Kirkwall is a favorite of his—its lineages, the trade disputes, the flows of different peoples through its harbor and its gates. Kirkwall is in many ways desolate, a combination of fabulous wealth and the most wrenching suffering. But it has remained vital and living, despite having its nature so undeniably determined by empire and oppression. Fenris tries not to think of possible parallels.

Anders does not seem to have much time to read, and when he does it is familiar books. Small mildewed volumes whose covers are soft enough to have the impressions of countless past fingers. They make Anders laugh, sometimes—mostly his eyes fly over the pages, hardly reading, as if soothing himself with familiarity. They are only a few steps above Varric’s fiction in quality, Fenris thinks. He still buys the ones he thinks Anders will like, nonchalantly leaving them on the bed, on the desk, in a coat pocket.

What Anders does mostly is write, however, covering great sheets of paper in a rapid scrawl. Hours spent over a candle and a quill pen, until he comes to bed. One morning, Fenris is awake with the dawn, armoring himself for the day. Anders stirs at his movements, and as nearly as Fenris can tell reaches for his latest draft nearly before opening his eyes.

He had forgotten to unbind his hair the night before, and Fenris can slide his hand into the locks there, kissing Anders until his eyes close with as much satisfaction as sleepiness.

Sometimes words were not needed.


	4. Leap

“Blondie, you can’t bet for shit,” Varric said, flipping the sovereign he held in one hand. He caught it and offered it to Anders. “How bout you just take it. No skin off my teeth.”

“No, I’m going to win it from you,” Anders insisted. The two of them stood at the gates of the city, where the cobblestones turned into the rocks and sand of the path leading to the seashore. The dwarf had been walking in that direction when Anders had spotted him, and divined his purpose—Hawke and the others had gone down the coast for a jaunt, and Varric always did like to pump Hawke for any interesting occurrences—Hawke did seem to find trouble.

Anders came along to find some trouble of his very own—white-haired, green-eyed trouble, that was.

“Varric, I wager that when they return, I will run and jump at Fenris, and he will catch me in his arms,” Anders said.

Varric fumbled the coin.

“That is…nugshit. Utter nugshit.  Blondie, don’t–”

Anders could see Hawke’s shining black head as it came into sight, and rubbed his hands together. “Yes or no, Varric?”

“Fine, yes, but—wait a minute!”

Too late, because Anders leapt into a jog, sped past a surprised Hawke and Isabela, and jumped at Fenris.

Fenris gave a soft grunt, and his hands, practiced by now, grabbed him by one knee and around the shoulder, lifting him a few inches off the ground. Anders, trying to stifle his hysterical laughter, gazed up into very surprised green eyes.

“Hallo, Fenris,” he murmured, for the elf’s ears only. “I missed you, very much.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed at that, but he exhaled something that at Anders’ closeness sounded like a disbelieving laugh. The first time Anders had leapt into Fenris’ arms had been in the mansion, when a rat had shattered a vase and fled amidst flying shards, and Anders had been so shocked he had jumped a foot in the air—and was unexpectedly caught in a clinch. Ever since, it had become a running joke for them—though once, one day, Anders had come back from a grueling mission with Hawke, and entering Fenris’ room, the elf had stood and held out his arms to him to leap into. Anders had felt like his heart would burst with joy.

Anders started to laugh helplessly, and Fenris set him down on his feet and gave him a light shove to his shoulder, herding him towards Hightown.

Varric was standing with his arms akimbo, staring at them with the gaping look Aveline and Hawke also had on their faces. Isabela just winked at him. Anders made a coin flipping gesture to Varric, and pointed to himself. Varric responded with a gesture that Anders was fairly certain had never been performed under the sky before, but that Anders could interpret as “Go to the Void”.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Fenris murmured as they rounded the corner. Out of sight, the elf hooked his fingers  possessively in Anders’ belt and drew him close.

“It’s nothing,” Anders said, almost cringing at how adoring his voice sounded. “Welcome home, love.”


	5. IDK this ficlet is about ears

Human ears were small, round, and in Anders’ case, freckled from some long-ago sun. 

Occasionally they were reddened, when Anders tugged on them in frustration or when he flushed in anger–behavior Fenris had notticed much less of lately.

Now Anders’ ears were red, but with warmth and the heat of the Antivan firewine that Varric had pressed on him earlier. The cold dampness of the day was outside, the door to Anders’ clinic was bolted, and they lay on two cots, pushed together in a dim corner of the room. Anders had tossed a bundle of elfroot on the brazier, making the air sweet. It hardly seemed like Darktown anymore.

Anders was drowsing, his hair down from the tight ponytail it was usually in, and the whole ragged length of it–shorter than Fenris would have thought–was spread on the old flat pillow. Their everyday lives–Anders in the clinic, Fenris out with Hawke–afforded few moments of rest and silence. 

It was rare that Anders lacked the energy and Fenris the motivation to do more sedentary work, but the week had been uniquely terrible, and the ink-stained parchment on the desk was the remnants of one sole hour of activity.

Fenris had found his head drooping, despite his best efforts to keep himself upright, and had gone to lay down on the cot. He knew to get rest when he could. It was not long until Anders was making a hellacious amount of noise dragging a second cot over to lay beside him, and they both had slept.

Feeling more refreshed, Fenris rose to an elbow above Anders, and traced one ear with his finger.

Anders jerked. 

“Excuse you,” he said. “I’m ticklish.”

At once he seemed to realize his mistake.

Anders tried to sit up, but Fenris shoved him back down easily. Anders inhaled a breath to yell but yelped instead as Fenris brushed the underside of his ear. 

Anders had managed to get a hand free, and Fenris felt a tug on his own ear. He laughed, and levered himself so that he was chest to chest with Anders, pinning him to the mattress, with Anders’ legs bent and pressed to Fenris’ side.

“That is not fair,” Anders said, red-faced and breathing hard. “You’re not even a little bit sensitive there?”

“I imagine that’s a human trait,” Fenris said. “Do you hate it?”

“I don’t like being tickled there, no,” Anders groused. 

“But you’re sensitive,” Fenris probed, stroking Anders’ hair to lie flat.

Anders had relaxed, and his face had taken on the devilish look that to Fenris boded a very good night. Anders could be so playful, in calmer times.

“I’d say so,” Anders said, pressing himself closer. “Why do you–ah.”

Fenris kissed Anders’ ear, and Anders’ knees quivered where they were pressed to Fenris.

“Do you hate this?” Fenris asked again.

“No, you maddening man.”

Fenris grinned, and breathed hotly into Anders’ ear, curling his arm around Anders’ head to cradle it. Anders made a sound between a laugh and a sigh, and wormed one hand beneath Fenris to begin pulling up the back of his shirt. It seemed that it was going to be less of a quiet night than Fenris had thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Fenris awoke to the feeling of someone washing his face.

The water was cold. It trickled into stinging cracks in his lips and across his nose, and the cloth swiped ungently over his eyes.

He must have made a sound, as the sensation stopped abruptly.

“Finally,” a familiar voice said.

Fenris forced his eyes open.

He could see nothing, and for a moment felt swelling panic. 

All he could remember was the departure from Kirkwall, the sarebaas collar locked around his neck as if it had never been gone. The screams of the guards who had gotten in Danarius’ way as he strode through Lowtown, bold as brass.

And no wonder. Hawke had practically given his blessing for their passage from the city. 

And now…it was dark. Had Danarius blinded him?

Fenris cast his gaze up–and saw stars. The relief was so intense, that if he hadn’t been lying on his back in the cold grass he would have fallen.

A shape moved, blocking his view of the heavens.

“Fenris,” Anders’ voice said–irritable, short, and totally unexpected. “Five days is not long enough for you to have fallen back into old habits, I’m sure. That’s not the angry elf I know. Cat got your tongue?”

Fenris said nothing. Anders was here, it was deep night at the side of the road, and where was Danarius?

A hand on the side of his face shocked him.

“Oh Maker, I was joking–they didn’t do anything to your tongue, did they?”

Fenris pulled away, and at the same moment, there was light.

A magelight bobbed over Anders’ shoulder, and revealed a number of things.

One, it was Anders in front of him.

Two, Anders was filthy with dust and splashes on his coat, while his face was covered in days of stubble. The light made his face cavernous.

And three…they were alone.

Fenris cast his eyes about, but his dazzled eyes could see nothing beyond the circle of light.

“Mage,” he said finally.

Said mage was tossing a balled-up handkerchief to the darkness of the roadside. “Are you all right?”

“Where are they?” he managed, instead.

“Dead,” Anders said succinctly. “They weren’t prepared for pursuit. And they put you to sleep right away. I could have used the help.”

“You were glad,” Fenris said, and it almost choked him.

“And then I felt bad,” Anders retorted. “We’re both still mad about that stunt in the Fade Hawke pulled, and you were happy enough about that.” 

“Are you alone?” Fenris said. He still didn’t feel like standing. He didn’t think he could.

“Yes,” Anders said, crouching next to him and offering him a canteen.

That answer hurt him more than he wanted Anders to see, and he took the canteen numbly.

“Don’t look so sad,” Anders grumped. “The others will meet us coming the other way. Except Hawke, as you might guess.”

“I don’t understand,” Fenris said. 

“We all met up, afterwards, and decided to come after you.” Anders said. “And, well. I’m a Warden.”

“What does that signify?” Fenris said levering himself to his feet. They ached from walking beside the caravan for hours. But all of him ached, including his head and his heart.

“It means, Ser, that I don’t get tired easily,” Anders said. He produced a coat from a dusty pile and tossed it at Fenris. “Walked through the nights. And the days. I don’t feel too fresh now, but I’ve felt worse.”

“And you killed them all, by yourself?” Fenris asked, in disbelief.

“Isabela and Varric sent me kitted out with their best goodies, just in case. I was supposed to tail you, and wait for the others to catch up, but…” Anders’ voice trailed off.

“But what?” Fenris asked.

“But I saw a chance and took it,” Anders said. Being evasive. Of course. “Can I convince you to wear these boots? For the novelty, of course. Also, it’s a long walk back to the others.”

Fenris was left staring at a pair of worn boots as Anders walked off. His eyesight had sharpened as his grogginess wore off, and he saw Anders bend over an unmoving figure.

“I’ll drag these off, and we’ll get going,” Anders called over. “You can even choose the destructive force of nature I use to…well, hiding the evidence is not the phrase I’m looking for, but..”

Fenris rubbed his neck, where the collar had sat heavily. Apparently Varric’s many attempts to teach Anders lockpicking had paid off after all.

He left the boots and started over to Anders and the light.


	7. Chapter 7

Annette lowered her rapier, panting hard. The windows of the studio were opened to the darkening day, and she could hear the noise of the promenading crowds in the plaza below.

The maestro clucked his tongue from where he leaned on the wall, one bare foot supporting him. Annette supposed him to be in his sixties, but she’d never met someone his age like him. Limber as a cat and alert as one too, the elf was most terrifying swordsman she knew. There was no better in all of Antiva City.

Annette was one of his few students, and she paid a truly embarrassing amount of coin for the privilege–and it was a privledge. When she had approached the famous door of the studio, with a massive broadsword mounted above the entrance in lieu of a sign, she had done so on the slightest of hopes. The maestro had watched her go through her drills, saying little. When the scrap of parchment confirming her admittance had arrived, she had shrieked like an excitable child.

Sessions like today were enough to make her regret her early glee, however. The maestro was encouraging and placid, but his green eyes never missed a single abortive movement or misplaced foot. Annette raised her arm again, but was cut off when the clamor from the plaza reached a new tenor.

The maestro went over to the window to look, and Annette followed him gratefully. Directly beneath the the window, two gangs of street children had gotten into an all out battle, and it was cacophonous. Annette was secretly pleased to see the slightly befuddled expression on the maestro’s face–it seemed that this was outside his experience.

Annette was then surprised to see a man wade into the fray, bellowing and detaching hands from hair and teeth from arms. It was Annette’s turn to be surprised. If one of the urchins didn’t have a knife she’d be a nug’s uncle.

“Look at that!” she said as the man deftly dodged a kick aimed at a tender place. “He’s seventy if not a day.”

“What a meddler,” the maestro said to her surprise. Stealing a look at his face, though, there was no scorn there, only a disbelieving tilt to his eyebrows.

Annette leaned down, frowning. The man seemed familiar somehow, but she could not place him. Tall, and with the thin white hair of the old combed back to his nape. He was wearing old–fashioned robes that hung on him, and strapped to his back was a long walking stick.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s the healer. The good one.” She gave her maestro a significant look, which he didn’t notice, or ignored. Or maybe the implication went over his head.

“Unfortunately,” the maestro said. “Go give him a hand.”

“What?” she said. “Why?” A swordfight was one thing, but a battle with a dozen furious children was another.

“Consider it the end of today’s training,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye that she’d never seen before.

“Maestro Fenris…” she said mournfully.

“Consider it a favor,” he said calmly. “Then you can come with us for dinner, if you’d like.”

“Really?” she said excitedly.

“He’s not such a bad cook–or at least, he won’t be unless he loses a hand to tetanus from an urchin bite,” the maestro said shortly. “Quick, now!”

A dozen questions on the tip of her tongue, Annette clattered down the stairs of the studio to the street below.


	8. Chapter 8

The grass was long and heavy with wet, but Fenris’ sealskin coat—a gift from Isabela—kept the damp from seeping through. Anders’ cloak and a fur ruff between them was the only thing keeping them warm. That, and each other.

It had been Fenris’ idea, to see Thedas. He had spent ten years happy with a sedentary life in Kirkwall, for just to exist as a free man was a treasure beyond price. But the stories of the others—of storm-tossed seas, silent primeval forests, and rough towns with a rhythm unlike the polished streets of Minrathous were enough to tempt anyone. However, he admitted to himself, once to travel was enough. Thedas was unsettled enough to make most journeys a precarious experience, especially for a mage and an elf, afoot, alone. He was content to do this once, then retire to their quiet house in Antiva—their bolthole, and then their home. He had books, now.

He was more than willing to spend the rest of his life reading and learning, reveling in the power it gave him over his destiny. He would not even mind putting down his sword for the rest of his life and dedicating himself to scholarly pursuits. That was what he told Anders. What Anders didn’t know was that, in every city they found themselves in, coin would exchange hands in return for every book and pamphlet Fenris found on the Grey Wardens, the delivery direction being to a discreet handler in Antiva awaiting their return.

Fenris had braved the Deep Roads once already. The idea of Anders dying there made him break out in a cold sweat, and the sum reaction Anders always had towards Fenris mentioning his ultimate fate within those tunnels and caverns took form in a look of brief panic and a changing of the subject, which infuriated Fenris.

Survival was everything. Anything could be redeemed, if it could just survive. Elves were no longer immortal, but they were long-lived—and Wardens were anything but. Fenris could not—would not, would not—be witness to his lover’s premature death, could it be avoided. And he was sure it could be avoided. Once, he had thought his own slavery an immutable fact of life, the superiority of his captors a certainty. Now he knew it was not so, not in the least. It was a logic that he applied to this as well–so much was uncertain, so much knowledge had been lost, Blight after Blight…there had to be a cure for the taint.

For Fenris knew that if Anders went into the darkness, he could not follow. Not even out of love.

“Look,” Anders’ muffled voice said, from where his head rested against his chest. Fenris looked down, and marveled at the sight of his fingers wrapped in Anders’ hair, at the base of his neck, at the glint of his eye that shone from above the blanket. Not for the first time he wondered how humans made do in the dark. Every detail, even the lines at the corners of Anders’ eyes, was clear to him as it would be in the day.

“See how bright Satina is tonight,” Anders murmured. Fenris turned his eyes to the heavens—and indeed, the second moon seemed to have an inner light of all its own in the darkness of the night sky.

“And I’ve never seen Dalona so close,” Anders added.

“Dalona,” Fenris said, his eyes alighting on the little blue planet. “The Qunari call it Hissabanit. They say if you use a magnifier to look at it, it is surrounded by silver rings.”

Anders’ silence spoke volumes to how much he believed that, but after all this time perhaps he no longer doubted Fenris’ ability to produce any number of monographs on the subject should he wish to.

“One of my old friends sent me a letter earlier in the year saying that Satinalia this year would be the longest night in five hundred years,” Anders said, after a moment.

“Tonight is Satinalia?” Fenris said, his interest piqued. “I’m still unused to the idea of winter being so warm, I suppose it slipped my thoughts.”

“It’s cold enough,” Anders said dryly, tugging the blanket up over them both

The stars wheeled over them, making their own way through the longest night of all. Fenris felt Anders’ breath deepen, and he closed his eyes as well. Here on the low hills, hidden by the long grass—no one would find them. And Fenris’ thoughts would be better saved until the morning.


	9. Chapter 9

Anders’ first thought, face mashed into the pillow as he was, was that it was too early. The second was bleary puzzlement, as he could hear high pitched squeaking. He frowned as he felt scrabbling on the sheets pulled taut on his back.

“Hwat,” he said intelligently.

“Go back to sleep,” Fenris’ all too amused voice said.

Anders’ hand, as he shifted in irritation, met something fat and fluffy, and he finally pried open his eyes.

A good-sized kitten looked back at him, then resumed trying to wiggle under his pillow.

“What?” Anders said again, more aware this time. He could feel, for lack of a better word, something gamboling on his legs. He flinched as a dry nose was stuck in his ear, and for a moment all he could hear was loud kittenish sniffing.

“Cats, many cats,” he croaked, sitting up finally. Maker, there were at least eight of them, all exploring his bed. “Where–”

“What if I told you we always had ten cats?” Fenris said, from where he was sitting by the fire. An opened crate sat by the door. On Fenris’ lap was an enormous tortoiseshell, the mother of the brood, whose eyes were narrowed with pleasure as he gently scratched her behind the ear. Fenris looked like he was about to purr as well—or laugh, his great green eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth.

Anders had a vision of Fenris gently placing kittens on him while he slept.

“I wouldn’t believe you, but I’m not complaining,” Anders said, as a crescendo of purring rose from all around him.


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke eyed the red bottle that Fenris put down in front of him.

“I’m afraid,” he said.

Fenris grinned. It was three a.m., and the restaurant was closed and cleaned for the night, but that meant that for Fenris, the night was just starting. Isabela, the head chef and owner, was alternating sharpening her knives and taking tequila shots with Merrill, the desserts chef. Ostensibly they were celebrating the success of Merrill’s new dessert, a chocolate heart you had to break to get at the raspberry broth inside. Fenris had turned up his nose at it, and Isabela had meanly told the whole kitchen that it was because he hadn’t thought of it first.

It might have been true.

So here he was, taking some passive revenge. “Put it on the fries, Hawke.”

“No,” Hawke protested. “I waited all day for these. I’ll dip one in. Anders said it made him cry last time.”

“Is that why he’s not here tonight?” Fenris said.

“I might have told him that you were planning on letting me try some,” Hawke admitted. “But why did you let him try any in the first place? I got him an onion bagel once and he thought it was spicy.”

“I dared him.” Fenris shook the bottle and squeezed out a dollop of his homemade hot sauce onto the Styrofoam lid of the fry box. “Dip the fry, Hawke.”

“May the Maker have mercy on my soul,” Hawke said sadly, taking a fry, dipping it and popping it into his mouth.

“He’s going to need to have mercy on your tongue,” Fenris said, watching as Hawke turned bright red and started to cough.


	11. Chapter 11

If he bites me, it’s done. Fenris reasoned.

Instead of trying to dominate the kiss, Anders coaxed him through it with only hints of teeth.

If he pulls my hair, that’s it, Fenris thought next, but the fingers at his nape smoothed firmly through his hair, making him shudder from head to toe.

Now thoroughly confused, Fenris pulled away.

“What is this?” he demanded.

Anders’ soft expression contracted in shock, and before Fenris knew what was happening, Anders had leaned out of his reach.

“What, is it that bad?” Anders demanded, and Fenris could see he was getting angry.

Fenris refused to think of his times with Danarius and his ilk as anything approaching intimacy, and his one night with Hawke had shaken him to the extent that he had fled. That act had cooled the erstwhile Champion’s ardor to something tepid. 

So when one of his and Anders’ conversations had ended on an amiable note– it had been about suicide, of all things–Fenris had invited him to cards. Having a front row seat to an abomination losing at cards endlessly was somehow funny enough for Fenris decide that while Anders was disingenuous about the plight of mages to the point of idiocy, he wasn’t all bad. 

Fenris’ jilting of Hawke had the unexpected side effect of making Anders like him even more. Fenris wracked his brain as to why, until Isabela had told him that Anders had been brutally rejected when he’d made a romantic overture to Hawke.

So on one rainy night, when both Donnic and Varric hadn’t shown, Anders appeared. One cup of hot glintwine had led to another, and Anders told Fenris that he was handsome, in a tone of voice that implied it was unfair.

Fenris had looked at Anders then, somehow appealing with his ragged coat and untidy hair, and it took only one mutual look of appreciation before Fenris was leaning over the table on shaky arms, kissing Anders.

“Well?” Anders challenged. 

“I’m not used to this,” Fenris said, touching his lips in frustration. 

“What? But you and Hawke–”

“Once was enough of that,” Fenris said, cutting him off. His gut had told him that Hawke’s rough touch spoke of danger and carelessness, and after the initial euphoria had worn off he felt no desire to return.

“Oh,” Anders said. “No good? Seems good I dodged that, then.”

Anders seemed to have relaxed, and was looking at Fenris again with something approaching humor.

“Well, how would you like to be kissed, then?” Anders asked, as if that was something people asked each other, ever.

I’m not sure, Fenris thought to himself, but there was no way to admit that to Anders.

“Stay still a moment,” he told Anders, who complacently stilled, and even closed his eyes. Fenris stared at him, a little stunned at his acquiescence, but then, last week Anders had been knocked for a loop and Justice had risen to take over, tearing people apart with lightning. For all his nerves, Anders was probably the safest person in Kirkwall. Fenris tore his thoughts away and looked at Anders’ slightly parted lips, red and roughened. 

It took more bravery than he had thought, to lean forward again and kiss Anders entirely of his own volition. This time it was even slower, and Fenris felt his fingertips buzz though he felt no magic in the room.

They kissed languorously, only connected by their lips and by Fenris’ hand on Anders’ thigh for support. 

“Ah,” Anders said when Fenris finally broke away. He kept his eyes closed, and Fenris noticed that his long lashes were nearly red as Aveline’s hair. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?” Fenris asked. 

“Feel free to correct me, but…slow is fine.” One eye flicked open. “Slow is good.”

Fenris looked at Anders suspiciously, looking for any sign of mockery. Instead, Anders seemed almost elated. 

“Will you kiss me again?” Anders asked, his lips quirked in a half-smile for some reason. Fenris decided that not asking why would annoy Anders more than complying with the request. So he did.


	12. Chapter 12

The man at the game booth looked ready to cry.

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

The metal rings clattered against the clay bottles, each unerringly sliding over the lips to catch on the wider curve.

“You are attracting attention,” Fenris muttered.

Anders’ hand stuttered, but the ring still flew truly, only bouncing off the mouth of the bottle before sliding home. 

A loud hooting went up from the other people trapped in the crush of the festival. Anders and Fenris had gotten separated from the others in the surge of the crowd towards the Chantry once the Summerday procession had started. The noise was deafening, so much so that Fenris could feel the vibration of thousands of voices in the edge of the stall pressed to his hip.

Once they had been stuck, Anders had started to fume. Fenris didn’t think he’d ever seen the man stand still so long. Once they had been pushed over to the bottle toss booth, Anders’ restless eyes had settled on the triangle of bottles. And lit up.

_Clink. Clink!_

_“_ And that’s it,” the operator growled. “You won.”

“Hah!” Anders had said, buffeted by claps to his back. “What have you got–any stuffed cats?”

The operator paused. “I got a mabari…?”

Every offered prize seemed to sour Anders’ mood more and more. A shuffling alerted Fenris to movement, finally, in the crowd. Before he could bark at Anders to move, he’d snatched something from the display and turned on his heel.

“I don’t know why I wasted a silver on that,” Anders muttered, seemingly more to himself than Fenris. Then he passed something over Fenris’ shoulder, and dropped it into his hands. “Here.”

“A stuffed mabari,” Fenris said flatly. “Why did you take it, if you didn’t even want it?”

“I needed to get my money’s worth,” Anders said. “Besides. It’s a mabari. A whole breed of animals that told Tevinter magisters to kiss off. I thought you could relate.”

“You should have given it to Hawke,” Fenris said, examining it. It wasn’t badly made, either. He lowered it, and asked, “How did you learn to throw like that?”

“His own mabari would chew it up,” Anders said. “It has to do with certain man escaping from from a certain place. All details will no doubt turn your hair whiter than it already is.”

As they shouldered their way through the crowd, Fenris realized with some surprise that he wouldn’t mind hearing more.


End file.
